


The old lie

by id_ten_it



Category: Inspector Alleyn Mysteries - Ngaio Marsh
Genre: Armistice Day, Character Development, F/M, Inspired by Poetry, Post-World War I, Remembrance Day, Shakespeare Quotations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-04-18 03:53:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14204469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/id_ten_it/pseuds/id_ten_it
Summary: “I’m not fit for man or beast this time of year, Troy” Alleyn apologised ruefully, “I think I’ll spend the weekend in the country. I suppose you’ll be here?”Alleyn, despite being separated by time and distance, still gets a bit het up around that time of year. This is the first time he's had Troy there for him.





	1. Rewind back to the trenches

**Author's Note:**

> Work title from 'Dulce et Decorum est' by Wilfred Owen  
> Chapter title from 'Last Post' by Carol Ann Duffy. 
> 
> Triggers: references to trench warfare, and PTSD. Neither are explored or dealt with in depth.
> 
> Ngaio Marsh said herself that she never managed to successfully reconcile Alleyn's post-war change of employment. This isn't going to answer that specifically but it got me to thinking about how three years of service might have affected him.

3rd November 193-

It had been five months since Rory – _Rory!_ – had somehow convinced her that she would be better off not fighting it, that he wouldn’t, in fact, hurt her or successfully read her thoughts. Aside from that first time when he had kissed her and she had broken away, he had, in fact, kept his promise. So now he was Rory and she was Troy (mostly, when she wasn’t Darling) and they were sitting in his flat in London.

“Troy?” he asked, as if he had asked her at least once before, and then fondly, “where are you?”  
“Oh, nowhere very special” she lied, reaching down and running a hand through his hair, marvelling at how easily he let it go. Inspector he might be, but gentleman he certainly was. “I’m back now”

“Sometimes I wonder why you come here, you know.” He smiled up at her, blue eyes bright with love and more than a little mischievous, “I was asking if my Mamma had spoken with you recently. She left Vassily a rather confused message.”  
“You know very well why I come here, Rory, so don’t fish. It isn’t nice.” Troy tweaked his hair just as he so often tweaked hers, smiling as he pulled a face. “As for your Mamma, she called yesterday. You have to admit that she is so very charming it’s no surprise Vassily can’t concentrate on her words.” Troy paused again to smile gently at the man sitting on the stool at her feet, struck anew with the elegant bone structure, even as Rory pulled the sort of face you’d have thought such a gentleman not capable of. “Apparently she speaks to me more than she does to you.”  
Rory flickered a loving smile up at her, chin cupped in his long fingers, “that’s because you are far more pleasant to talk with than myself, Darling.”  
“Do you want me to tell you what she said?” Troy scolded.  
“Oh, not particularly.” Rory leaned up, enjoying the distraction for some time before Troy broke away, breathless and smiling.   
“You really are incorrigible!”  
“I’m sorry Darling” Rory laughed back, “if you like I can go and sit in the corner and be the most frightful bore.” His laugh was low and soft, a hidden thing shared with only her, and she smiled back at him. “I don’t think you could be a bore even if you tried. You have no idea the torment I get in when we go out. You always know just what to say to whom and I stand there sounding like the most tongue-tied little fool. Especially when they talk of painting.”  
“I know. Is it really that bad? Would you rather I just spoke with you?” Troy thought he was joking until his fingers stroked her knee, reassuring, offering, and she shook her head.   
“No. Not really. At least one of us doesn’t sound like an ass. It’s a great comfort.”  
“You don’t sound like an ass. And I thought you said it was a torment.”  
“It’s a tormenting sort of comfort.” They both laughed, and her fingers – charcoal smeared and splotched with blue and yellow – twined in his. His shoulder rested against her thigh, his long legs set at sharp angles, one drawn up and the other thrown out loosely. Troy thought again of how satisfying he had been to paint and wondered if it would be entirely inappropriate to suggest a pencil sketch. The comfortable silence which had sprung up so easily between them in the days following their first reconciliation descended again. Troy watched Rory, and Rory watched the hearth. His fingers were still and warm under hers, his shoulder solid and grounding against her thigh. She was just wondering if it might be time to suggest dinner when he spoke.

“’This fortress built by nature for herself against infection and the hand of war, this happy breed of men, this little world, this precious stone set in the silver sea, which serves it in the office of a wall or as a moat defensive to a house, against the envy of less happier lands. This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.’ Do you know who said that, Troy?”  
“Richard the Third, wasn’t it?”  
“Second, actually. According to Shakespeare, anyway.” His gaze slid upwards and then down again, as though ashamed of what he might say next. “He said a lot of that sort of thing.”  
“The arms are fair, you mean.”  
“When the intent of bearing them is just. Exactly.” For a moment he had the oddest look on his face, as though the conversation was slipping away from him. She tightened her hand over his and his gaze shuddered and was still. “I…I think that’s what my Mamma would have said to you. She’s quite right you know.”  
“She didn’t put it quite like that, Rory.” He sighed, a deep and heavy sound she hadn’t heard since the time he’d told her he was going to arrest one of her students. She felt a fierce sort of protectiveness come over her and grasped his hand in both of hers. His long fingers curled around her own. Still he didn’t look up.

“I know I’m silly – no, don’t interrupt. It really shouldn’t knock me for six like this. It was all so long ago, and really it isn’t that bad. It’s just these two days. I’m not fit for man or beast – or woman either, come to that. After that first year and what happened to poor old Thompson, I went back to the house and somehow that made things easier. Of course I don’t advertise the fact – the Super has no idea, but good old Fox has been known to manage on his own for a few hours. So now I go down as a matter of course and the rest of the time it isn’t a problem. I…I suppose you think I’m a terrible coward, running down to the country like that.”

In answer she slid down to the floor next to his stool, and hugged his hand to her chest with one of hers, freeing the other to go around his back.

“Not at all.” The noise he made may have been a chortle, or it may have been a sob.


	2. Warm French bread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from 'Last Post' by Carol Ann Duffy.

7th November 193-

“Really Rory, you’re making that up!” Troy laughed, her fingers sliding down her wine-glass stem as she placed it back on the table, “I’ve met Fox and I cannot imagine him nibbling away at French pastries with a chic French lady.”   
“ _Mais oui_ ” Rory assured her, leaning forwards slightly over their dinner as a waiter passed by his back, “ _il le fait constamment.”_ His eyes sparkled up at hers, the candlelight dancing across his irises and reflecting off his pupils. He looked quite roguish, Troy thought, and locked their eyes together, taking his hand. “You speak the most lovely French” she whispered. He looked smug. Not taking his eyes off hers, he lowered his already deep voice still further and slid the warm pad of his thumb over the tops of her fingers, “ _Je suis content que tu le penses ainsi mon cheri_.” Her throat constricted as she struggled to swallow. It really was some kind of wonderful.


	3. Queuing up for home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from 'Last Post' by Carol Ann Duffy

9th November, 193-

“Miss Troy called, Sir. She says she is very sorry but she has to go.” Vassily, stooped with misery and clasping his hands in a mute plea for understanding, greeted Alleyn as he ducked home in search of a certain book he wanted to have by his desk. “Has to go?” the inspector queried.   
“Yes, Sir. She says she has to go to her friend Miss Bostock but she says you will understand and she will call later. Tonight. At work also, she will call, if you are not here.” Vassily peered up at Alleyn, who held himself with a sort of detachment that did not match the disturbed feelings in his insides.

‘This is what being disappointed is like’ he thought with a curious sense of unreality, ‘this is perhaps what it will always feel like when she simply has to paint or sketch or just wants to do things without me. I had better get used to this feeling.’ For several seconds he considered it, as though considering an object Fox was holding up to him, and then he returned his gaze to Vassily. “Thank you.” He said, quite calmly, and took himself to his single bookshelf, the one which ran all along the outside of his sitting room. Book in hand, he strode back to the Yard and attempted to immerse himself in work.

The rest of the day passed more quickly than Alleyn would have thought possible; he was immersed in a history of forging for the whole afternoon and found it significantly more interesting than he had initially anticipated. He didn’t forget Troy – any more than he forgot to breathe – but she slipped to the back of his mind, a comfortable weight and little more than a warm anticipation of her call. “Not staying too long, I hope, Sir.” Fox rumbled, regarding his superior with no sign of surprise.   
“I’m just finishing this up, Fox.” Alleyn glanced up, “then I’m off home. I’ll see you on Monday.”   
“Yes Sir.” Fox paused, hovering as well as a man as solid as he was could do, “You’ll be away this weekend, won’t you Sir?”  
“I will.” Alleyn put down his papers and regarded Fox calmly, “I’m sure the boys on duty can handle anything that comes up.”  
“I’m sure they can Sir. I’ll see you on Monday then.” Fox flapped a massive hand at Alleyn, and stepped out into the steady stream of men, all looking for their usual Thursday night quiz at the local pub around the corner. Alleyn watched him go and sighed inwardly. At least this year he wasn’t off in the middle of the week.

Reading finished, he checked the small clock on his desk. Would Troy ring this early? He thought it unlikely, so tidied away his desk and retrieved his coat and hat. Taking one more look around, he switched off the desk lamp, checked the safe, then plunged the office into darkness and shut the door. Three days away from the office. Maybe he should take leave more often, he mused.

Vassily had left him some dinner, as instructed, and taken himself off to wherever he went when he wasn’t in Alleyn’s flat. Alleyn ate, stacked his dishes, changed into a cardigan and slippers, poured himself a drink, and retreated to his favourite armchair. He tried not to look too much in the direction of the ‘phone. ‘You’re being ridiculous’ he said sternly, ‘you’re a grown man. Do at least try to act like it.’ Firmly, he took up his book and continued to read it. It was some time later that the phone rang and he was startled enough that it took him three rings before he answered.

“Hullo, Alleyn speaking.”  
….  
“No, but I hoped it was you.”  
…  
“Yes darling, I quite understand. Don’t be silly.”  
…  
“Yes, no we did talk about it. I don’t enjoy it but I’m not a brute about it, I hope?”  
…  
“Thank you Troy.”  
…  
“You know I’d usually jump at the chance…”  
…  
“I know, I can’t believe it either. I suppose you’re right.”  
…  
“Yes, dear. You’re very droll. Alright, I’ll pick you up around nine then. Does that suit?”  
…  
“I love you too Troy. Have a good evening.”

Alleyn stood looking down at his hand on the receiver for some time before slowly removing it with the strangest feeling of regret. He hadn’t done this before. Well, at least his Mamma would be pleased.


	4. Kiss the photographs from home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from 'Last Post' by Carol Ann Duffy

10th November, 193-

They drove mostly in silence. Troy had had a late night with Katti, and was still waking up. Alleyn was disinclined to chat. The miles passed beneath their wheels with a steady purr which seemed to Troy to come as if from a dream. Nothing seemed quite as real as it usually did, and she hunched her shoulders and stretched out her arms to try and loose the feeling. She must just be tired. Alleyn glanced over at her, “alright, my girl?”  
“Tired.” She admitted, “These late nights aren’t for me anymore.”   
He gave her a sidelong smile and disengaged his hand to pat her knee, “you know the country’s usually as quiet as the proverbial” he reassured her, “you can take it nice and easy.”  
“That’s all very well in theory” Troy complained, “but what about when the corpse turns up?”  
Alleyn glanced over at her, “the corpse turns up?”  
“Every time you go on holiday, something happens and you end up cutting it short to get back into the harness. You told me so yourself!”  
“Oh, that corpse. It really is the Detective’s Curse. Well, I’m not going to give it a second thought, and I suggest you don’t either.” He squeezed her knee and gave her another gentle smile, “there’s a good lass.”  
“You say things like that now” Troy murmured darkly, “but I know that if something does happen you’ll grumble about it and then give yourself over to work.” At Alleyn’s grimace she laughed, “See? You know I’m right!”  
“You’re usually right” Alleyn allowed. He didn’t sound too upset over it.

Troy spent the afternoon over at the studio, and was pleased to find that she settled in to work as though nothing had changed. Alleyn spent the afternoon with his mother, who had put aside her current project (a delicate piece of lace work) to spend time with her favourite son. They walked about the grounds and discussed local gossip and international news with equal fascination. Troy returned as Alleyn was sinking into a before-dinner bath, and he vaguely heard her talking with Lady Alleyn. It was special the way the two of them got on despite all of the apparent differences between them. Alleyn loved Troy very much in that moment, and felt a surge of thankfulness for his mother too. He let his head tip back and the familiar sounds of old-world plumbing and new-world servants wash over him alongside the gentle lap of the water. Already he could feel his extremities cooling, and his heart rate picking up. He took a few deep breaths and then sank under the water.


	5. Make them forget, O Lord, what this Memorial means

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from 'At the Cenotaph' by Siegfried Sassoon.
> 
> Thompson is a real person, although I am unsure of his actual name.

11th November, 193-

There was a service at the local memorial. Lady Alleyn and Troy dressed carefully in black dresses, and gathered in the foyer. Troy wondered if she looked as nervous as she felt. Rory was usually very self-contained, and while he wasn’t the sort of man who shied away from displaying emotion, he also wasn’t the sort to cry or become overtly upset. What would she do if he cried? Did he and his Mamma have a support plan that didn’t involve her – would she be left standing helplessly to one side?

“I sometimes wonder if it would be better for Rory to cry” Lady Alleyn murmured, as though she could read her mind, “he rarely does, you know. Even when his father died.”  
Troy swallowed thickly. “I suppose it was rather overwhelming.” When her father died she hadn’t cried either, not for weeks. Not until it had sunk in a bit and she had started coming out of her trance of grief.   
“It was. I sometimes wondered if that’s why he didn’t go into the Regiment like his brother. He went with his university friends instead.”  
“That must have been different.” Troy wanted to ask about the service but she couldn’t bring herself to. She slipped her hand into her pocket, the engagement ring snagging on the fabric as she edged her hand inside.  
“It was.” Lady Alleyn agreed, “and I’m not sure if it was the best option but at least he has today down here away from work.”

“Talking about me?” Rory’s deep voice, tinged with slight amusement, drifted down from his position on the stairs.  
“I was telling Troy about your university friends.”   
Rory came down the rest of the stairs, sober black, medals chinking gently, and shook his head fondly, “not too much I hope. Troy doesn’t need to know all the things I used to get up to.” He reached out a hand to her and she took it, letting him draw her close and kiss her forehead. “Thank you for being here, Darling.”   
She nodded, squeezing his hand. “I’ll be right by your side. Unless you’d rather I’m not.”  
“Right by my side sounds just right.” He held out his other hand to his mother and they trooped out to the car.

The service took place as remembrance services do. The officiating priest started Lady Alleyn off early by asking ‘where do all the women who have watched so carefully over the lives of their beloved ones get the heroism to send them to face the cannon?’ prior to his opening prayers. Rory took her hand and squeezed it, and didn’t say the ‘amen’. Troy couldn’t tell if that was because his heart was full or because he didn’t, really, believe.

He joined in the hymn with a gravity she hadn’t experienced before, still holding Lady Alleyn’s hand.

Troy, holding her programme with her left hand, her right brushing against Rory’s side, read Psalm 46 with the rest of the congregation. Lady Alleyn, on Rory’s right side, read the words firmly and as if for the first time. Rory’s voice was steady but Troy missed the usual mellifluous lilt his voice took on when he read poetry. They sat.

The sermon was short, mercifully, and the prayers equally short afterwards. As they stood for the Act of Remembrance, Rory placed his books carefully down in front of him and let his hands hang freely. He snapped to attention for the Last Post, and remained so until the last notes of the Reveille. The congregation stirred, blowing noses and wiping eyes, but Rory just sat back down again as the organ began to play _Nimrod_. Troy glanced over at Helena but she seemed to be following a friend off into muted conversation, so Troy sat close to Rory, and tried to stop the tears that threatened to break free.

“How about we walk back?” he asked, taking her hand as the music finished. She nodded, and they set out. The unshed tears hung heavily at the back of her throat, and her breath caught on them as they walked. Rory was quiet, his medals making a gentle chinking sound as they bounced on his chest.

“I didn’t tell you about Thompson” he said, eventually, pausing.  
She paused too, shaking her head, “I didn’t want to ask. Just in case.” She admitted.  
“He came back. Got a job in London.” He swallowed thickly, “all of the good things anyone could hope for. But he never got better. One day he didn’t turn up to work. A week later he was arrested. He’d been going down to the Tube, to see a special doctor, and he snapped. He thought he was in a trench full of Germans, and he tried to defend himself. Luckily there were two uniformed men nearby and they restrained him before anyone was killed, but two women were hospitalised and a man very nearly lost his arm trying to protect himself. The police arrested him of course but he was so clearly not fit for anything that he was bundled off and spent the rest of his life in institutions. He died about 18 months later and - and I can’t help but feel that was a release for him.”  
“Oh _Rory_.” Troy stood, frozen, for awful seconds, and then reached out to him and pulled him close. He came, eagerly, clinging to her in the brisk air. “I’m sorry” he whispered, “I’m so, so, sorry.”  
She started to cry.


	6. As he walked away, I heard him laugh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from 'At the Cenotaph' by Siegfried Sassoon.
> 
> If anyone who actually speaks French would like to offer some translation assistance I'd be most grateful!

13th November, 193-

“How was your weekend, Fox?”  
“Quiet, Mr Alleyn. Nothing happened that shouldn’t have.” Fox sat his bulk down on the other chair and regarded Alleyn with a sort of shy pride.  
“Did anything happen that should have, Foxkin? You look pleased as punch.”  
Fox nearly blushed. Alleyn, surprised by that as he hadn’t been surprised in months, gave the man his full attention. “Well not as much that it should have Sir, as that it was a pleasant surprise. You know I’ve been learning le français? Yes, well, I finished that record and made good inroads on the next. Would you care to hear some, Sir?”  
“Nothing would give me more pleasure, Fox. Off you go then.”  
Pausing only to clear his throat, Fox assumed a grave countenance and regarded Alleyn. Alleyn realised Fox had learnt his French sitting with his glasses on, no doubt to look at his notebook, and had unconsciously got into the habit of looking over the frames when he practiced speaking. Gosh he and Fox weren’t as young as they once were!  “Excusez moi, Sil-vou-play” Fox intoned majestically, “Je suis Monsiour Fox et je suis Anglais. Je suis un gendarme.”  
“Tres bien” Alleyn rejoined, smiling, “may I ask a question?”  
“Oui” Fox returned, grandly, though looking slightly worried.  
“Où habites-tu Monsieur Fox?”  
Fox froze for a moment and Alleyn wondered if he’d gone too far, but the other man rallied quickly, “Je vis à Londres.” Fox regarded Alleyn’s smile for a moment before asking him back, “Où habites-tu Monsieur Alleyn?”  
Alleyn laughed, “you tricky old Fox! “Je vis à Londres aussi, which you know full well, you old devil.” Fox grinned, looking very pleased with himself. Alleyn smiled back, but their conversation was interrupted by the ‘phone on his desk.

“Alleyn speaking.”  
“Hullo Rory.”  
Alleyn glanced over at Fox, “Hullo, Darling. I didn’t expect to hear from you. Is everything alright?” Fox made to leave but Alleyn shook his head.  
“Yes everything’s fine. I just…” Troy sounded more than a little sheepish, “I didn’t say goodnight last night. I just wanted to hear from you.” Alleyn couldn’t tell if that was because of the weekend or because of some other, undefinable, reason, but he smiled gently, “I’m sorry.” On the whole, he thought, it must have been the weekend. Troy wasn’t, as a rule, a clinging sort of woman. “Perhaps it would have been better to stay in London.”  
“Don’t be an ass” Troy’s voice, fond, snapped across his idea, “if you must know I was sitting here working away and thought it’d be nice to, well, to have a bit of contact. It’s quite dreary here and I’ve just realised I’m staying here all week…it’s a depressing thought really. I can’t think why I mind so much.”  
Alleyn smiled, the laughter hidden in his voice, “I’m not going to reassure you. Sounds to me that you’ve got used to having me about the place. There’s only one cure for that, you know.”  
“You sound very sure of yourself” Troy laughed, “I _am_ sorry for ringing, Rory. You’re probably awfully busy.”  
“Fox was just demonstrating his French skills. Il peut très bien parler français maintenant _._ ”  
“Don’t, or I’ll never get this picture finished. I’ll talk tonight.”  
“You aren’t ringing off?” Alleyn grinned, “alright Darling. Talk tonight. I hope the work goes well.”  
“Me too” Troy muttered darkly, “till tonight, Rory.”

“That was Troy” Alleyn said, quite unnecessarily.   
Fox nodded, “indeed Sir.” He gave his superior some time to come down from his increasingly familiar besottedness, before asking, “what do you think about this forger then, Sir?”


End file.
